


When in Cages

by Lagerstatte



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Bathing/Washing, Blood, First Aid, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Whump
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-20
Updated: 2019-10-19
Packaged: 2020-12-24 12:01:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,354
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21099137
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lagerstatte/pseuds/Lagerstatte
Summary: A foray into Keycatrich Trench goes wrong. Trapped without his friends, Ignis has to fight for his life.





	When in Cages

**Author's Note:**

  * For [egelantier](https://archiveofourown.org/users/egelantier/gifts).

> Congrats :)

They’d been in Keycatrich Trench only five or so hours before it had all gone wrong. At least, Ignis hoped, it had gone wrong for _him_; perhaps the others were fine.

It was pitch black. His light had been smashed in the fall and subsequent cave in, along with his forearm, collarbone, and probably several parts of his skull, if the blood in his hair was any indication. His chest still hurt where his ribs had been snapped from his spine, and he hoped that didn’t indicate unhealed internal damage; he’d taken an elixir and didn’t want to waste more curatives given Noct, Gladio and Prompto’s unknown statuses.

Never mind. What he needed to do was find them — or, given his circumstances, wait until the others found him. He’d been separated from the others after they’d scattered from a surprise ronin attack, and trapped when the floor had collapsed beneath him and left him in the narrow space between one of the iron grates and wall of fresh rockfall. He supposed he was lucky he hadn’t been buried completely, but it was hard to be pleased — there was room for him to turn and blindly shuffle a couple of steps along the grate, but that was it. Certainly, if he tried to use magic to force his way out, he’d only blow himself up in the process. And while they had spare lights in the armiger, turning one on would only attract whatever was nearby.

He couldn’t hear a thing, save his own breathing. He tried not to think about how there was every chance that this section of the Keycatrich was entirely caved in, inaccessible from the outside world. He could live on supplies fed to him from the armiger indefinitely, sending back his own waste so he wasn’t going to end up knee-deep in it — at least until the daemons smelt him out.

Ignis sat down on the ground, back to the crumbling rocks, knees bent so his legs were sticking through the grate, and tried to stay calm. It was humiliating, being so helpless, needing saving. The humiliation was better than the terror of being trapped, caged so tightly, and all that was saving him from death by daemons was that he hadn’t been sniffed out yet. He tried to make his breathing light, measured, and quiet. All it would take would be for one to find him, then the noise and bloodshed would attract others, and others, and with nowhere to go he’d be killed eventually.

His phone, of course, had no reception this far underground. It worked as a dimmable light while he wrote a note to the others describing the route he’d taken before becoming trapped, and that he was trapped and regretfully needed aid. Noct could tell when things were put into the armiger, so assuming they were fine and Noct wasn’t distracted, he needn’t wait long. Ignis waited a few minutes before he checked his note, pulling it out and squinting at it. He had an answer: glad you’re okay, we’re all fine, don’t worry we’ll come get you. It wasn’t signed, but Ignis could recognise Noct’s handwriting as easily he could his own. To know that Noct, Gladio and Prompto were fine was more soothing than anything else. They’d managed to escape the ronin, at least.

There were battery packs for charging their phones in the armiger, solar powered. Theoretically, as long as the others could get out — and they had to be able to, he refused to consider the possibility that they might all be stuck down here — that meant he’d be able to have his phone working indefinitely. It was tempting to play with it, check the time, but light would attract daemons. Writing the note had been risky enough; better to sit in darkness. If he heard the others he could call out to them, but until then, better to be as quiet as possible.

The air smelt like rock and water, cold. Shapes pressed against his eyes, made up out of the darkness, his brain trying to pick out light where there wasn’t any. He could hear his own heartbeat and the sound of his internal organs, churning away. When he swallowed it was unpleasantly loud.

How long had it been? Not too long, a couple of hours at most. His chest was aching again, as was his head. He should drink — he was probably dehydrated, doubly so given the blood loss from his head injury — so he got out his canteen, sipping at it when too large a mouthful made him retch.

Even the slightest movement shifted the gravel and rock shards he was resting against, dislodged by the rockfall, and Ignis couldn’t not think about how close it may or may not be to falling down onto his head. That would be an inglorious way to go.

The thought of dying here, for no reason but sheer bad luck, burnt at him. He couldn’t stand it. He needed to be by Noct’s side. That he wasn’t stuck like a bur on the inside of his skull. He wasn’t just trapped; he was useless.

At least Noct still had Gladio and Prompto with him. Gladio at least would make sure his safety was top priority.

It was still maddening that it wasn’t Ignis making Noct’s safety top priority. He needed to be there. He needed to make sure. He trusted Gladio, and Prompto too, but to not know, not be able to see for himself, was agony.

Perhaps he should try to find a way out again. He’d searched when he’d first fallen, of course, but he hadn’t wanted to make too much noise or light. But if it turned out there was a way out and he simply hadn’t seen it, then, well.

He debated it a while longer, sitting as still as possible, waiting for the sound of something — further rockfall, his friends, daemons — before inactivity grew too maddening. It was worth the risk.

With the light on his phone screen dimmed as far as possible, he pushed himself up to kneeling then standing, grimacing as his body protested, head starting to pound. Barely a moment after he’d begun to check over the grate again for a sign of weakness, the first daemon appeared.

It was a goblin, and behind it three more bubbled up out of miasma. They saw Ignis immediately; Ignis cursed, summoning his Orichalcum daggers as he stepped back from the grate. They reached through it, and Ignis cut skinny arms from two of them before they retreated, shrieking. The arms fell to the ground and grasped at his feet before dissolving away.

The goblins were back almost immediately. One jammed its head against the hole in the grate but couldn’t fit through; another scrambled around closer to Ignis, and seized his leg just above the knee. Its claws sunk into his flesh, holding onto him like a fishhook. Blood ran down his skin, soaking his trousers, and Ignis lent forward, dismissing his dagger to reach through the grate, and summoning it again on the other side. He beheaded the goblin and had to pull back fast to avoid the remaining two jumping on his exposed arm. They howled in laughter and tried pawing at him, only two arms between the both of them, which Ignis shortly relieved them off. He jammed his dagger into the open mouth of one trying to shove through the grate face first, then grabbed the other by its neck to pull it against the grate, where he stabbed it in the chest until it died and dissolved away.

His hand was bleeding. Ignis stared at the torn leather of his glove and beneath it, the ragged ends of his skin. He needed a potion. His phone was on the floor, and he reached down to it and turned it off, slipping it into the armiger. Then he got a potion, wincing as his injured hand wrapped around the flask, and broke it open. The pain drained away as his wounds healed.

The goblins’ screams still echoed in his head, and his breathing was hard and ragged. For a moment he waited, and hoped that the commotion hadn’t drawn attention.

He was disappointed: there was a glow coming towards him from down the tunnel. A galvande, and he closed his eyes for a second, bracing himself. Firearms would be his best bet. So long as he could kill it before it exploded, then it shouldn’t be too much trouble.

He was trained in firearms, but he’d never done much more than necessary, and especially not recently given Prompto’s proficiencies. The Valiant II felt awkward as he aimed and fired, and kept firing. The galvande drifted closer, but at least it was staying small. Its black-pitted eyes and mouth were smudges of dark in the round glow of its body.

When it was close enough it would be able to reach him with its lightning attacks. If it managed to stun him, and explode while he was incapacitated, then his chances of survival would be considerably less favourable. A gun was distressingly loud, but long-range was his only option.

Ten metres away. Then five. The shots rang, deafening, over and over. His palm was sweating all over Prompto’s gun. The galvande lifted up then slammed down against the bars, ragged mouth open wide, and electricity sparked. It ran down Ignis’ arms, and he gritted his teeth against it. Keep firing, don’t drop the gun. The muscles in his arms spasmed and his shot went wide, but with the daemon this close it hit anyway. It hurt but not too badly — if he could just carry on—

The galvande died, rearing up and crackling. The light in it went out, and the tunnel returned to darkness.

Ignis stumbled, knees nearly buckling. He grabbed hold of the grate and clung to it, then pushed himself off and upright. He crouched to pick up Prompto’s Valiant II — when had he dropped it? — and dismissed it back into the armiger.

Pressing the heels of his palms against his eyes didn’t do much for the way his head spun, or stop the flashes of white scrawling over the darkness. He didn’t need a potion, just a moment to regroup.

The next set of goblins appeared a decent way down the tunnel, judging by the sounds. He couldn’t see them at all, but he could hear their garbled chatter. For a breathless few seconds Ignis wondered if they wouldn’t notice him, but their words — was it words? It sounded like nonsense — turned excited, and got louder and louder.

Ignis grabbed at his phone to provide light, but he fumbled with it, and it clattered on the ground. When he knelt to pick it up, something — a goblin — smashed against the grate, screaming. He felt something reach for him, grasping at his jacket, and he pulled away, pressing himself against the rockface. Where was his phone? Claws scratched at his leg as he crouched, digging in and trying to tug him closer. He pulled back and the claws tore out of him, taking with them chunks of flesh.

Almost immediately another goblin grabbed his wrist, and Ignis left his phone and took a dagger, slicing off its arm. Then something landed on him, falling on his shoulders and head.

The goblin slid down his back as he reared up, but dug in its claws, and bit him; its needle-teeth sunk into his shoulder as it reached for his neck, trying to strangle him.

Ignis twisted, slamming it into the rock, but it didn’t let go. He flipped his dagger, reaching up to stab down, but the goblin clung on and shook its head from side to side, tearing his shoulder open. He could feel its teeth scrape against bone. Blood poured down his back.

More hands on his ankles, claws piercing his skin. Another goblin jumped on him, grabbing at his arm and trying to gouge out handfulls of flesh. He stabbed it in the head, and it fell from him, but he couldn’t tell if it were dead or not. He tried to grab at the goblin on his back, but his arms were weak; with one badly torn up, the other with a ruined shoulder, he could barely reach to touch the goblin, let alone pull it from him. Its claws sunk into the soft skin of his throat.

Ignis slammed back into the wall so the goblin was pushed forwards, closer, and reached across with his left hand t stab the goblin in the face. It punctured the front of its skull, crunching, but the goblin still didn’t let go of his shoulder, and Ignis had to dismiss the dagger when he couldn’t pull it out. He stabbed it again, and then again, and tried not to stumble as sharp hands grabbed at his legs. The goblin on his back went limp, and its hands left his throat, but it still didn’t dissolve away and off him.

He reached down and cut away the arms clinging to him, like scything grass. How many more were there? His hands were shaking as he pulled out a potion and broke it.

Pinpricks of light caught his attention: a clump of small, round lights, turquoise blue, and flickering.

A hecteyes, Ignis realised, and raised his arms to his face uselessly when the beam struck.

He was in pain, and he couldn’t see his enemies. He struck out at them, but there was something in his way. Confusion tore at him. 

He hurt; they were hurting him. They were killing him. Blood poured out of his body. His lance was stuck, caught, and he struck at the things crawling on him with his fists. He got one in his hands and he wrung its neck; he sliced another along the line of its spine, and coldness poured out over his hands.

Purple light, too bright. He shut his eyes, turning away, and agony tore into his body, throwing him into the wall.

He fell to the floor. Hands and knees. He struck at the rocks, clawing at the walls until his fingernails tore. More light, more pain, struggling to get his hands underneath him. Where was he? Trapped. He couldn’t see. He couldn’t swing his lance. Pain, healing, more pain. Healing.

Clarity came to him all at once. Ignis scrambled to his feet and grabbed at as high a level spell as he could find — a firaga — and threw it at the hecteyes. In the split second it was airborne he summoned one of Gladio’s shields. It fell against him as he crouched down behind it, and fire licked around its edges. As soon as the spell died back Ignis dismissed the shield, and he took Prompto’s Valiant II again. The hecteyes was dark, but the embers from the firaga still burnt bright enough to see by, and Ignis shot at the daemon, then the last remaining goblin. His whole body was shaking hard; he fell to his knees, but kept shooting. He could take a potion after he killed it. He couldn’t afford to risk getting confused again.

The hecteyes died, and the embers went out. Ignis took an elixir and broke it, swallowing hard to keep the sob of relief from exiting his mouth.

More daemons would be coming, though, now blood was spilt. There were only so many potions and elixirs left, and he couldn’t take all of them anyway, because that would leave Noct and the others without.

Three — or possibly four — flan-type daemons appeared next, and Ignis killed them with magic, because it was pitch black again, and he couldn’t see to aim with firearms. Then two hecteyes drew themselves out of the floor, bubbling up, wet-sounding, and Ignis threw two more spells without caring what, only that he kill them as quickly as possible.

They’d stocked up on spells recently; he’d helped Noct brew them only a few days ago. They had a good ten or fifteen left, and most were decently potent.

He needed to survive. He knew Noct needed him. But he couldn’t leave the others without means to defend themselves. They’d need this magic. They needed the curatives. Sooner or later he’d have to stop taking them.

In the dark, Ignis reached into the armiger and counted what was left. Twelve spells, all at least second level potency and one with healcast. He was half-way through the potions when the awful, slick sounds of daemons forming interrupted him.

Goblins again, by their chitter — that was obvious. Was there anything else? The darkness pressed up against him on all sides; Ignis moved back against the rockface, waiting for the claws to sink into him. He’d forgotten his phone on the floor. Should he grab it? A light would attract daemons, but he seemed to be doing that fine in the dark. He could fight better and therefore need fewer curatives and spells in the light, but sight and magic wouldn’t help him if he were overwhelmed.

The goblins sounded like they knew he was there, but hadn’t found his exact location. Summoning his daggers or a spell flask would give him away with the glow of the armiger; he’d have to time it between being targeted and being attacked.

Even after the potion, he still hurt. His whole body ached, felt weak, sore and tender, and the damage to his shoulder was too much for it to heal properly. He was not in good shape for a fight. He could take an elixir, but there were precious few of those left.

The sound of a goblin throwing itself into the grate made him flinch. Instead of grabbing his daggers he pulled out a light, turned it on and threw it into the corner, hopefully where it wouldn’t be damaged. He pulled out his daggers and the goblin screamed as he gutted it, the Orichalcums’ inbued light elemental burning its bony flesh.

Now there was light he could see the way the goblins were climbing up the grate and squeezing in the cracks around the edges. There were five of them — six; he only saw the hecteyes when its eyes began glowing.

He threw himself sideways, out of the way of the flash beam, but another hecteyes’ eyes lit up. The laser beam rotated, moving towards him, and there wasn’t any way to escape it.

It sent him to the floor, slumped against the rocks and body seized up in agony. While he was down another goblin jumped on top of him and grabbed at his neck, leaning in to bite.

It tore his throat open. He took an elixir and killed the goblin. A blizzara spell killed one of the hecteyes but not the other, and while he was trying to fend off the remaining goblins he was struck again by the hecteyes’ laser.

Even with the light his vision was blotchy — focusing had become difficult, like his eyes were lagging. A goblin grabbed hold of his dagger even as he stabbed it through the eye and would not let go. He didn’t have the strength to lift it up with the dagger, and there was no room to swing it.

He threw another spell at the hecteyes, not caring which, and dismissed a dagger to take a potion and use it. A goblin grabbed his leg and bit the back of his knee, snapping his hamstring as it chewed into his flesh.

Another potion, his torn flesh knitting back together, but reluctantly. The goblins were almost gone. There was one black flan but the hecteyes were also dead. Blood made the stone floor slippery.

Ignis stumbled as the last goblin jumped and grabbed his arm. It swiped at his face, clawing up his arm; Ignis pulled it off, kicked it down, and slit it open from throat to groin. It writhed on the floor, and Ignis stepped out of reach to deal with the flan. He threw a firaga, but his arm was injured worse than he’d thought — the spell hit the flan instead of the floor, bounced off its rubbery body, and rolled back towards Ignis.

The flames caught them both, hitting the flan hardest but scorching Ignis too, burning his forearms where they shielded his face. The flan died with a disgusting sound and the smell of burning sugar; on top of blood and a deeper, fetid daemon stink, it made Ignis retch. He reached for a potion and came up empty.

No elixirs either. His burnt skin cracked, whitened and dead, already seeping in places. The skin under his shirt and trousers, that had been wet with blood, were scalded. He had the healcast spell, but he needed to save it for when the next daemons appeared.

Carefully, agonisingly slowly, Ignis knelt down and picked up his phone, putting it into the armiger. Then he turned off the light. The plunge into total darkness made his breath hitch.

Perhaps — perhaps he would die here. He hadn’t thought it — or rather, he’d thought it but not believed it — but the weight of the pain, impossible to ignore, drove it home. Would it be better if Noct never found him and was left without closure, but never having to see Ignis’ body and picture his death? Or was it the other way around?

Ten or so minutes passed before the next daemons formed. Ignis turned on the light to identify them as a pair of marshmallows, and he threw a blizzara at them even though they were resistant, because it was the one with healcast. The pain eased, but didn’t leave. He could still feel the throb of blistering skin, the burn settling down into his flesh. He threw a thundaga next, and then they were too close for spells.

He shot them a couple of times, leaning back against the rock to keep himself steady. The closest marshmallow, pockmarked with bullet holes, reached the grate, reared up, and slammed down onto it. The grate creaked but didn’t bend or brake; the marshmallow slammed it again. Ignis kept shooting.

The second marshmallow leant against the grate instead of slamming it. Its nubby tendrils reached for Ignis, closer and closer. It was squeezing through a square in the grate, Ignis realised numbly, and got out his daggers and struck at it. Even his Orichalcums had trouble penetrating its rubbery flesh, and when they did it seemed that the wounds just closed over, self-healing.

Dust fell as the grate squealed and bent. The marshmallow’s face distorted as it forced itself through, and Ignis went for its eyes, putting them out in a spray of viscous fluid.

It didn’t stop the marshmallow. The one slamming the grate didn’t stop either, and with another bodyslam the grate shuddered and jolted inwards. Ignis stumbled back, crying out in pain as he hit the rock behind him, and by the time he’d got his balance and a stronger, if not strong, grip on his daggers, the marshmallow had squeezed through.

It rammed into him, driving him against the rock. His daggers sunk into it, but it didn’t seem to even notice as it leant back and slammed him again.

His arm hit a jagged piece of rock, bent against it, and broke. Another rough outcrop dug into his back, tearing his clothes and skin. The blisters across his stomach and thighs popped and the skin tore.

Even with one arm hanging useless, he managed to stab deep into the marshmallow’s body, again and again. The marshmallow writhed, shoving Ignis against the rock, and he tried to twist away but was trapped by its rubbery body.

The grate squealed then crashed down, hitting the rock wall, and stopped from falling on Ignis’ head only by the taller bulk of the marshmallow still trying to crush him. Ignis ducked, scrambling away, and the sharp edge of a grate bar caught him and tore open his chest to the bone. Squeezing out between the grate and wall, Ignis ran, and he threw another thundaga behind him, then another. He’d left the light behind, he realised only as it went out, caught in the blast of spell. In the sudden darkness he tripped, and, unable to catch himself with only one hand, fell hard.

Momentum carried him forward, rolling him and leaving in a heap, gasping and retching as his broken arm bent. It was silent behind him. He’d killed the marshmallows, then, at least. He could have a moment to breathe.

Not too long, though. He forced himself up to carry on moving, shuffling blind, finding his way with his unbroken arm trailing the tunnel wall.

A group of goblins found him, and he killed them with long sweeps of his polearm and then seizing and stabbing the ones that reached him. There were flans of some kind, waiting in the middle of the tunnel, and Ignis managed to skirt around them. By the time they’d detected him he was most of the way around them, and he ran to escape.

Blood soaked his clothes; he was probably leaving a trail behind him. But maybe Noct, Gladio and Prompto would be able to follow it to find him. More likely, a daemon would.

Maybe he could find the exit, and call for help.

The fourth or fifth time Ignis stumbled on uneven ground, he tripped and fell. The other times he’d managed to get back up, but this time he couldn’t seem to manage. His head was spinning, and his limbs wouldn’t obey him. He knew he needed to get up and keep on moving, but he couldn’t. He managed to press himself to the wall, tucking himself under a small overhang.

It was only a matter of time until more daemons found him. The agony of his wounds swamped him, rising above his head to drown him. He was cold. His body felt like stone. Getting up now would be impossible.

All he had left to do was wait.

He hoped Noct and the others were okay.


End file.
